by Jamie Ivey
'Jamie, vous êtes content?' Madame Roland asked again.
'Oui, je suis content.'
'Well, you shouldn't be.' Miriam rejoined the party. She'd been nosing around on the first floor. 'Tiles are unevenly laid. The whole thing will probably collapse under the weight of the snow. There are more cracks in the walls, the building's being tossed around like a boat – surprised if she'll see spring.'
'Perhaps you'd like to point the problems out,' said Madame diplomatically, cleverly leading Miriam away. I'd already formed the impression that Miriam was a pathological doom monger. If she'd been on the passenger list of the Titanic, she'd have disembarked, having imagined some problem or other prior to departure. Doubtless she'd have told all the other passengers, but nobody would have listened.
I rejoined Tanya. The early stages of her second pregnancy had been particularly uncomfortable. Every morning she was assailed by waves of nausea. Stoically she refused to let me look after Elodie, insisting I concentrate on the construction and the wine business. In the firelight her skin looked pale and her face drawn. The blood had drained from her lower lip and whether from the cold or otherwise she gave an involuntary shiver. The construction of the house was taking its toll. In some respects it was harder for her. Relationships with people in the village which she'd worked hard on were suddenly and inexplicably severed.
For the first time in a long while we'd begun to reminisce about England, about what we missed, the convenience of being able to form friendships with people in our own language, without the inevitable cultural misunderstandings. Conversations like this had been relatively common when we first moved to France. However, they'd quickly faded as we became more and more immersed in life in Provence. Their re-emergence was perhaps a sign of the vulnerability we both felt. Perhaps it was also the pregnancy. It was only natural for Tanya to want to be with close family in a secure homely environment.
Our hearts were in the new home, but every night we slept in the rented farmhouse apartment which was showing increasing signs of wear. In the morning we awoke to swimming pools under the windows and a strong draught seeping under the warped front door. Every couple of weeks or so I complained to Manu. He simply shrugged and said it was natural condensation. The damp had begun to affect all our health, with colds lingering longer than normal. Poor Elodie was suffering the most and her nose was streaming on a semi-permanent basis.
Squatting down next to Tanya, I took her hand. She smelled of cough sweets.
'Everything OK?'
She nodded.
'I'll drive you home if you like.'
'No, I'll stay, time you carved the lamb.'
Earlier we'd fashioned a table out of breeze blocks and some wooden planks. The meat smelt of charred rosemary, roasted garlic and crackling fat. The leg glistened in the firelight, its skin attaining a reflective sheen. As the snow fell outside, the builders, their boss, Miriam, Tanya and Elodie all huddled around, drawn over by the siren smell of the lamb. Together we were an odd bunch, brought together by the endeavour of building a house. As I sliced the meat onto plates I realised that despite these men working for us for nigh on four months, we'd hardly spoken. During my visits to the site there had always been a distance. The pace of their work would slow, they'd observe me, we'd say hello and goodbye and that was it. Normally there were two men working, sometimes three, exceptionally four. Superficially their features were similar to the Provençaux – dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin – however, they were taller, leaner and their colouration just a subtle shade deeper. The locals summed this all up in one word. 'Arabe.'
I ate next to the man I judged to be the oldest. His stubble was flecked white, his skin creased, particularly around the eyes and on the backs of his hands. Eschewing the proffered knife and fork, he dissected the lamb with his fingers, pulling away strips of meat and dangling them into his mouth. He drank water rather than wine.
'Is it OK, the work?' I asked.
'It's not bad.'
'Do you go to the village?'
'Never.'
Our conversation was punctuated by long intervals of silence and made harder by the fact that our French accents appeared mutually unintelligible.
'Why not?'
'Here we have wood for a fire, we have food, we have beds, we have music, what more do we need?'
'Do you miss home?'
'A little, we send the money back.'
'And after this job?'
'Maybe home, maybe another job.'
The man ate his food quickly. Sitting with me made him uncomfortable and he was glad when he was finished and was able to reach for his cigarettes and head outside.
I noticed that Snuffle had isolated a late arrival at the party. It was Franck, the electrician and parent at Elodie's crèche. Snuffle's eyes never left the man's plate. His tail wagged as if it were clockwork. Occasionally, the electrician tossed him a piece of lamb which disappeared in an instant.
'Can I offer you some more wine?' I crossed the room.
'Thanks! What's the breed?'
'Petit chien lion.'
'I've got a poodle.'
'A poodle?' Surprise must have registered in my voice. I'd not seen a dog at Franck's house and the breed seemed wrong for this butch workman.
'They're the best for truffle hunting.'
He was right. Hypoallergenic with a turbo-charged nose, a poodle would have been perfect, but for my vanity. An idea occurred to me. 'Would you like to see our trees?'
'Already have.' Franck took a mouthful of food, seemingly enjoying a personal joke. 'But there aren't any truffles.'
It took me a moment to digest the implication.
Franck winked and stroked Snuffle. 'Maybe you'll have better luck next year.'
'You know he's in training.'
'Seems to prefer meat.' Franck dangled some lamb into Snuffle's mouth. 'He's a lion dog, after all.'
We both stared into the fire. How should I deal with the fact that Franck had been scouring the chantier for truffles?
'Tell you what,' said Franck, putting his plate on the floor for Snuffle to clean, 'I'll take you with me one day, show you how it's done.'
'Really?'
I was as excited as a puppy in snow. If I'd been outside, I would have headbutted a drift to check I wasn't dreaming. A truffle hunter offering to share information. Tradition had it that Franck, on his deathbed, should have whispered the location of his trees to his chosen successor. Yet here he was, bold as anything, offering to take me on a tour.
'Too much snow at the moment,' Franck peered outside. 'I'll give you a call when conditions are right.'
The offer was a lifeline. The more a dog finds truffles, the better he becomes. Success breeds success, and the dog comes to associate rooting around under trees with his or her favourite treat. The converse, of course, is also true. Failure breeds apathy and boredom.
During the autumn, under Gaspar's tutelage, Snuffle and I had had plenty of success with the Canitruffe; however, we'd yet to properly unearth a truffle. The more we tried, the more uninterested Snuffle became. I'd even noticed that oak trees had begun to induce lethargy in him. On a walk he'd hang back and pant with feigned exhaustion rather than risk the farce of another unsuccessful hunt.
'Where's your truffière?'
'You misunderstand.' Franck winked and I began to fear the worst. 'I just know some places.'
Right now was probably the most dangerous time to hunt for truffles in a decade. Both the police and the trufficulteurs had used the word vendetta. At the moment Provence had more gun slinging peasants than a small African republic and an American Bible Belt state combined. What's more, trigger fingers were as itchy as a bad case of venereal disease.
'Have you ever been shot at?'
Franck nodded.
'Just the once.'
He rolled up his sleeve to show me the scar and firelight flickered over the ugly red welt.
Chapter 25
Christmas approached and as a specia
l treat, we did our festive shopping in Aix-en-Provence, meandering along the Cours Mirabeau, marvelling at the lights draped like expensive jewels between the rows of plane trees. Traders in temporary wooden huts stretched from the statue of King René, opposite the Deux Garçons cafe, to the tumbling fountain in the middle of the roundabout at the base. These opportunists sold nativity figures, lights, plates, linens, and of course, this being France, food. The finest foie gras, seafood glistening on trays of ice, free range chapons with golden corn-fed sheens, mulled wine, roasted chestnuts and champagne.
Later in the day we celebrated Elodie's second birthday by buying the Christmas tree and inviting children over from her crèche to festoon it with decorations. A crisp layer of frost coated the countryside, the skies were cloudless, a perfect regal blue, and wisps of pungent smoke drifted from the chimneys of the village houses. The drive filled with cars, and our house with the sound of children's voices. Once the tree was finished, the children donned coats and gloves and wrapped tinsel around the lower branches of the nearest olive trees. I drank an inordinate amount of champagne and Tanya rested her hand on her belly with a contented smile. Although it was too faint for me to feel, the new baby had started kicking.
On Christmas Eve, we attended the crib service in the neighbouring village, climbing with the rest of the inhabitants to the small church that rested on a rocky outcrop. The procession was torchlit, and the tight cobbled streets forced people and animals together. Elodie sat on my shoulders and the steaming breath of a nearby donkey wafted in front of her face. Amid the crowd I could see Franck with his daughter, Coralie. The snow from the previous week had melted, and yet it was still cold. The conditions were perfect for truffles and the call might very well come in the next day or so.
The arrival of Tanya's parents on Christmas morning spared us the debate of whether to go to the village bar or not. Instead, we feasted on coquillage, chapon with grated truffle, brie laced with truffle and – a trick learnt from Annie in Uzès – crème brûlée à la truffe. Outside, Provence shone under clear skies and for the next few days we walked amid the vines and olive trees. Elodie sat happily in a rucksack on my back and we ambled through the surrounding countryside, discovering new tracks.
By New Year my stomach felt as swollen as Tanya's. January started with a diet and a long anxious wait for a call from Franck. Snuffle and I scratched unsuccessfully away at the base of our oak trees. Frosts, full moons – nothing made any difference. There were no truffles. Meanwhile, each week was punctuated by a visit to one health advisor or another.
France spends 11 per cent of its GDP on its health service, the UK 9 per cent. I was never aware that 2 per cent could make such a difference. While friends in England were lucky to get one or two scans during their term, Tanya visited the centre de radiologie every month. Instead of waiting all morning for the machine to be free, she was called through within minutes of her appointed time. Often she saw the gynaecologist immediately after the scan. The whole experience was quick, efficient and incredibly thorough. Blood tests were another monthly event. Everything from glucose levels to signs of toxoplasmosis was measured and monitored.
And, of course, there was the inevitable visit to the dietician. The questions were personal – how much weight did she put on during her last pregnancy? On the hips? On the stomach? How quickly did she regain her shape? Did her husband appreciate the speed of recovery? This last question was tantamount to asking how soon we got back into bed together, but according to Tanya it was delivered with a completely straight face, in a totally professional manner.
The list of what she could and couldn't eat was exhaustive. Its compiler was presumably a misogynist gourmand who liked women to suffer – foie gras, coquillages, fromages, jambon sec, saumon fumé. The notes went into extraordinary detail. For example, the dried ham section ran to about ten different varieties; Parma, Serrano, Pata Negra, etc... Clearly the umbrella term would have sufficed but someone wanted pregnant women to dwell on what they were missing.
The speed of progress on the house was uplifting. The windows had been installed early in the new year, and once the place was watertight, workmen scurried all over the interior. Plasterers rendered the interior walls, pipes for the underfloor heating were laid and covered in a protective foam, great fistfuls of coloured wires were yanked into gaping sockets, and the bath tiled into place. Suddenly, from a concrete shell, the house was transformed into somewhere we could envisage living.
The completion date was still months away, but as the essential services were connected, the first drop of water fell from the taps, and the first bulb pinged into life, it became more and more frustrating not to be able to move in, particularly since our problems with Manu and our rented accommodation showed no signs of abating. On a weekly basis a swarm of flies hatched in our living room. The warm humid atmosphere created by the condensation was apparently the perfect incubator and the chemical warfare which I waged on a daily basis ineffective. Mould grew in the bathroom, swallowing the carcasses of dead flies, and no amount of cleaning products could halt the progress of nature. Manu simply shrugged and said, 'C'est la Provence.'
Towards the end of February the weather changed. An unseasonably hot sun heralded an early spring. Trees budded, wild flowers coloured the fields, and the Provençaux emerged from their houses, attacking the rampant weeds which threatened to overpower their gardens. Truffles vanished from menus and it seemed another season had passed.
Daily life continued, the pungent Provençal mix of paradise and problems, heady black coffees on the terraces of cafes, early evening walks through olive groves and oak woods, discovering hitherto hidden fountains in nearby villages, delays on the chantier, falling sales in my wine business, trips to the doctor with Tanya, and sleepless nights with Elodie as she succumbed to damp-induced colds.
I forgot all about finding truffles. Then, in the middle of March, the temperature suddenly dropped, hovering near freezing. I looked at the cycle of the moon: it was perfect. The mistral swept in from the Alps, driving the gauge down still further, until I awoke one morning to a fine silver dusting. The landscape shimmered and shivered in the morning light. Underground, for one final time, tubers stirred, gossamer threads hummed with nutrients, and the black diamonds began to grow. In response to this final call to the fields, Snuffle the Truffle Hound retreated deeper into our house, barely poking his nose beyond the door. A couple of forays into our truffière produced nothing but despondent empty-handed returns.
Unsurprisingly, Franck the electrician disappeared from the morning drop-offs at crèche and unsurprisingly my phone didn't ring. His offer of help had probably been genuine at the time. A few glasses of wine and a convivial environment had induced a rare crack in the cavage code of secrecy. However, he'd doubtless woken up the following morning and thought better of his proposal. Why should he reveal hidden truffle locations? Part of me was relieved that the phone hadn't rung. Although no more shootings had been reported, the papers were still full of news about the ongoing war between trufficulteurs and poachers. Tensions and tempers were high. Franck's invitation was to go poaching, to break the law and to risk being fired at. Better he didn't call. Yet part of me still itched to find my first black diamond with Snuffle.
Chapter 26
Frost still lay heavy on the ground when I was summoned to an electrical emergency at the building site. The power had gone out and obstinately refused to go back on. My presence was required to OK an augmentation de puissance from EDF; essentially, pumping more juice down the line to keep all the heavy construction equipment running. I'd called Franck for some impartial advice on what was and was not necessary and he'd kindly dropped around to the chantier.
Technicians from EDF surrounded him, irate workmen denied power made their excuses for the delay in the work programme, and everyone waved their arms dramatically. Something as simple as flipping a switch and adding some more power became a half-hour argument. As the denouement approached and the EDF
technicians shrugged their shoulders and claimed it was more than their job was worth to do anything before lunch, Franck looked at me.
'C'est le bon moment pour aller chercher les truffes.'
Off guard, concentrating more on electrical problems than trufficulteurs with shotguns, and answering instinctively, I said, 'Pourquoi pas?' Why not?